A Hundred Pieces
by Elementalist
Summary: When he woke up a few hours later, Tweek shuffled down to the kitchen for some coffee, too drowsy to clearly remember what had happened earlier. He threw open the cabinet door to retrieve his cracked, blue mug. And cried all over again. -drabbles-
1. Cried

A/N: Ooooh, yes. Doing the one hundred theme challenge~~

And since that's a LOT of drabbles, I'm going to tell you at the beginning what pairing and rating each story is, so you can skip ones you don't want to read. (Like, if you don't like K2, you can just jump to the next chapter.)

Title of each drabble is the word used from the list.

Here's the low down for this one:

Pairing: Style  
Rating: K

* * *

"O-ow! That _hurts_!"

Stan looked up at Kyle and cocked an eyebrow at how the latter hiccupped, desperately trying to hold back tears. He could seem them, clear as daybreak, shinning in his emerald eyes. And even if he were blind and could see _nothing _but the forever darkness of his own skull, Stan knew what it meant when Kyle hiccupped.

With a jerk of his hands, Stan glanced back down at Kyle's knee. It bled, still, even after he applied a cold wash rag to it and bitched at it to stop. Kyle had bitched at it too, in between his hiccups, dropping oaths each and every single time it throbbed in pain or Stan even stared at it wrong.

But they were only six. And falling from a bicycle _hurt_. A lot. So Stan couldn't find the heart to be mad at him, though Kyle snapped at him and said bad words about him. He didn't let him bug him because Kyle was his best friend and he knew since he was four that Kyle didn't mean those things.

That anger wasn't true anger-just a distraction, a way Kyle tried to ignore his urge to cry. It worked well enough, Stan guessed. He hadn't seen Kyle cry in a long time. Not since his parents first brought Ike home and told him he had a baby brother to look out for and set a good example.

Stan stuck the bandage over Kyle's knee, gently pressing down so it'd stick right and wouldn't fall off when he helped Kyle limp home. Kyle made a sound, winced, but, this time, didn't hiccup.

After all, Big Brothers aren't supposed to cry in front of their little brothers.

Or their best friends, Stan thought, smiling. When he straightened up and offered Kyle his hands so he could ease him up off the dirt, Kyle refused and stood up on his own. Stan caught the twist of pain in his brow but let him stand on his own, without the aid of his steadying hands.

Big Brothers don't need help either. Big Brothers stand tall even though they hurt and they don't cry even though they really want too, because Big Brothers have to set good examples for their little brothers.

And Stan knew Kyle meant to set the best example out of all the Big Brothers out there. 


	2. Worked

Pairing: K2  
Rating: T, for language

* * *

Seven years later, I'm still waiting for your damn phone call. Or a letter. Or a fucking IM, though that's just hopeless wishing since I don't have a computer. And, even if I did, I'd have no money to pay for an internet bill.

Two jobs. I work two fucking jobs. But I still can't afford shit. Except the rent and car payments, maybe some cigarettes and a bottle or two of vodka to help me stomach my shitty life. Well, actually, I can afford those things on _good _days, which I don't seem to have very often.

Maybe it's my punishment for believing it could last. For thinking we could work out our own goddamn problems before you hit the road for collage. For waiting by the phone, each night and every night, just hoping you'd finally call and tell me, "I'm coming back home."

I wait for that day the most.

I work so much that the days seem to mesh together. Seven years is a long time to have someone wait, Kyle, especially for someone who saves back every spare penny he earns, just so he can get you whatever you want when you finally come home. . .

I miss you.

Call me?

Please?

* * *

Drabbles are so freaking fun. Short, however, but fun~

I hope you're enjoying these. . . . haha~

-Ele.


	3. Memorized

Pairing: Creek  
Rating: K

* * *

Deposit a scoop of coffee beans, market fresh, into the grinder. Cover. Push start.

Wait.

Take the grounds, powder fine, and press them into a small, metal spoon. Insert into another machine. Press start. Place a cup beneath the nozzle to collect the drippings.

Wait.

One beat, two beats - enough to complement the scent in the air. Then, move again. Prepare.

Grab a bottle of flavored syrup. Procure the can of chilled whipped cream. Find the correct lid.

Wait for a little more.

Take the cup when the machine makes a sound, a metallic groan. Add the syrup. Stir. Add the whipped cream. A flourish of more syrup. Puncture the perfection with a straw and cap it with a lid.

Abduct it to the counter. Exchange the cup, a liquid Mozart-Di Vinci-Shakespeare worth so much more than the seven dollars it went for.

Repeat for six hours. Go home. Return the next day to do it again.

Tweek had memorized the routine within the first day of his job. He knew it better than how to spell his own name, than how to tie his shoes, than just about anything.

Except one thing.

Which was something far from his coffee-making-routine, something that was not a string of actions, but a tangible person that went by the name Craig Tucker.

4:00. Wait. 4:04. Start. Make a Chai Tea Smoothie, viente, spiced with an extra shake of cinnamon powder. Omit the whipped cream, the pumpkin syrup on top. 4:09. Done.

4:10. Craig walks in. Attempts to pay for his drink. Is refused. Pays instead with a few, quick kisses, worth so much more than the drink they're for.

Do it again. And again. Day after day.

Follow this pattern, repeat it and repeat it, better than coffee. Better than anything.


	4. Imagined

Pairing: K2  
Rating: K+

* * *

Overhead, the leaves from the maple tree blotched out the sky with tiny patches of orange, yellow, and red that made it seem like the tree was on fire. Like the sky itself, so crisp and blue with August, had been turned into an inferno of cold fire.

Crimson and violet tulips, with the occasionally white lily, sprung up in sweet little bouquets, adding not only more beauty but the faint perfume of their mixed scents. Tamed ferns, clipped back to a comfortable length, circled the base of the maple and lead down, like some leafy wall, to a cooing creek.

A zephyr played around, as alive as any air jinni from some imagined myth, and it wove its mischievous fingers through Kyle's soft auburn curls, ruffling them like Kenny had a tendency to do.

All of it seemed too perfect for reality. The colors too red or green or violet; even the crystal-clear waters of the creek were so sharp that it shone with a color Kyle couldn't name. The land felt too soft underneath him, the moss more like pillows than a spongy plant. Everything was too. . .amazing. Wonderful. Meticulously pristine.

Something, like the teasing jinni, that had to be imagined up.

And Kyle had no trouble believing it, not for one hesitating second, that he was just daydreaming this pretty place up. That it all was a side effect of his overactive mind.

Until he heard thunder roll in the distance, disturbing the perfection of this place.

Then he noticed that it wasn't as perfect as he thought. It wasn't as bright or comfortable (his legs were numb from sitting) or gorgeous. He noticed, with a shock, the headstone looming in front of him like a rift of imperfection in his perfect little world.

The nice, pleasant-_fake_-serine that had settled over him, vanished. He was in the cemetery. Sitting in front of Kenny's grave, still dressed up in his black slacks and black over jacket from the funeral the day before. And the day-old anguish washed over him again, so strong he had to shut his eyes and wish, wish, wish all over again that Kenny's death had just been a part of that goddamn over imagination too.


	5. Cracked

Pairing: Creek  
Rating: K

* * *

Tweek pulled his favorite mug from the cupboard, a chipped, cracked, blue one that held a generous amount of coffee, and set it on the counter. He filled it to the lip and took it into his hands again, the ceramic soothing away the winter chill from his fingertips.

He loved his mug. In fact, it was the only one he ever used anymore. For three years, Tweek always woke up in the mornings from his nightly two-hour nap, brewed coffee and drank it from that same blue mug, never once breaking habit.

Craig had given it to him one day as a surprise, though Tweek couldn't remember if it was for his birthday or for their one year anniversary, so of _course_ he wasn't going to use some other, not-as-important mug. Ever.

He stood there and drained the entire thing, a contented smile pulling up his lips as he reached over, grabbing the coffee pot again. He filled up his mug, and had just returned it to the dock when he noticed it -

A little, black bug scurrying towards him on the countertop.

Tweek jerked out his arms with a yelp, startled, and realized, a stricken moment later, that his hands had gone cold.

The crash on the floor made them grow colder.

He couldn't bear to look and just stood there in the kitchen, crying because he'd broken his mug, his gift from Craig on whatever celebratory day it had been, his norm for the last few years. Shattered it into a thousand, coffee-slick, pieces that could never been mended back together.

Craig found him like that a while later, having grown concerned when Tweek never returned to bed. He noticed the mess and guessed what had happened, but didn't comment on it as he went on and cleaned it up. Afterward, he took Tweek by the elbow, leading him upstairs with gentle words and soft pleas for him to stop crying.

He did, only after he fell into an unhappy sleep brought on by pure misery alone.

When he woke up a few hours later, his bed empty save for the pillows and sheets, Tweek shuffled down to the kitchen for some coffee, too drowsy to clearly remember what had happened earlier. He threw open the cabinet door to retrieve his cracked, blue mug. And cried all over again.

Partly because he remembered that he'd broken it and it was no longer in there (or ever would be).

But mostly because there was a new one already waiting for him, an even bigger green one that had a sticky note stuck to it:

_Stop crying and drink your coffee already._

* * *

A/N: This one is my favorite so far~

You still enjoyin' them?

-Ele.


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